The Worst Christmas Ever
by Armagnac
Summary: When L was 12, newbies A and B experienced their 1st Christmas at Wammy House. What could possibly go wrong? Or, for that matter, right. Rated T for language/violence. Some spoilers for The Worst Feeling Ever.
1. Provenance

Disclaimer: I do not own Death Note nor any of the characters contained therein.

Summary: When L was 12, newbies A and B experienced their 1st Christmas at Wammy House. What could possibly go wrong? Or, for that matter, right. Rated T for language/violence. Some spoilers for The Worst Feeling Ever.

**The Worst Christmas Ever**

Part 1: Provenance

Really, if he'd had to pinpoint the moment, it had started with the singing. That morning had begun with a strange jolt, to be sure, but everything had seemed to be going smoothly enough until events spiraled out of control while everyone had been gathered in front of the tree to sing carols. He'd always loved Christmas, and he certainly had a fondness for music, but many of the others did not share his enthusiasm, not even during that first one he'd experienced at Wammy House some years ago.

Sighing, Aleister turned from the window, the grey sky beyond it promising snow it had yet to deliver. Tomorrow it would be Christmas again at the orphanage, but nothing felt the same. Watari had promised to be there, but Aleister was almost certain that L would not. L would undoubtedly have some logical explanation for why he couldn't attend, but odds were that the recent events in Toronto had more to do with it. Aleister was tired of thinking about it all.

_Maybe that's not an entirely fair assessment_, Aleister thought. _L's never really seemed to take to the holidays quite the way some of us do_. _If the first Christmas I spent here was any indication, it's faintly miraculous he didn't spend every holiday away since then_. _Whereas that holiday was the true beginning of my friendship with Beyond_. Aleister smiled softly, remembering.

~~~~~~*%*~~~~~~*%%%*~~~~~~*%*~~~~~~

Grass crunched under their feet despite the complete lack of snow. Grey gusts of breath steamed out of their mouths as they hustled along, the mist leaping ahead before dissipating behind them. _It's just got to snow_, he thought. _It won't feel like Christmas if it doesn't!_

"Why are we running?" he finally asked.

"What are you, stupid? We don't want the old man to see us, duh." The other boy rolled his eyes, quickening his pace.

"Which old man?"

"Whichever."

Clenching his fists, Al moved to catch back up to the boy. He still wasn't sure why he was bothering to go along with him on this pointless quest to leave the grounds and head into town. _Boredom_, he supposed. "They'll find us out whether they see us or not. Even if we manage not to trip the alarm system –"

"If you're gonna be a chickenshit about it, just go back! I don't need you."

"I don't bloody need you either! And I'm not 'chickenshit' – which is a stupid epithet in any event." Al huffed.

"Oh, I'm sorry, I forgot – you only speak 'British pansy.' Which _epithet_ would you prefer? How about whiny crybaby, or pathetic loser?"

"Suppose I'd rather be _that_ than a syphilitic cunt, but enough about your mother."

The other boy stopped, bent forward with hands on his knees, breathing hard.

"What are you –"

"Henh, henh, henh, henh!" The black-haired boy was laughing, his eyes crinkled up and watering. "That's . . . the funniest thing . . . you've ever said!"

"Pfft – you haven't known me that long." Al put one hand on his hip. "Are we going for the gate, or are you going to stand there gasping like an asthmatic?"

Grinning, Beeb stood up straighter. "Oh, we're going for it. Race ya there, Ally-oop!" And he was off like a shot.

"Blimey . . ." Al hurried after him, wondering who might be watching them from the windows. Dawn had yet to grace the sky, but it was coming soon. He wouldn't have minded staying in all day. The mix of tedious chores with entertaining festivities held its appeal for him, but he still felt that strange distance. He'd been at Wammy House for just under a year, and it still didn't quite feel like home. Then again, the home he'd lost had never felt much like home either, so perhaps he would always feel this way. Al wondered if at some point this feeling would stop mattering to him.

Rounding the corner of the garage, he bolted after Beeb, the stone pillars and wrought iron of the gate now in sight. Al was determined not to let a boy nearly one year younger than him beat him in a footrace, even if they were, annoyingly, the same height. He swung his arms harder and leaned forward, feet eating the ground with increasing ferocity.

_Ha!_ _I'm doing it!_ he thought, catching up to Beeb. _He'll regret challenging me to a race_. Al sped up and overtook Beeb just as they approached the first looming pillar. Launching himself past it, almost stumbling on the gravel of the driveway, he ran right up to the gate and slapped it with an outstretched palm. "Take that! I win, you minging berk!" Out of breath and grinning, he turned around in triumph.

Beeb was standing still, staring just past him, his expression unreadable.

"Oh, don't tell me you _let_ me win – you're a tosser if you won't even try!"

As if he'd forgotten that Al was even there, Beeb started and met his eyes. "Yeah, whatever. We, uh . . ." He sighed. "Change of plans. We gotta go back."

"What?" Al was incredulous. "Now who's the chickenshit? Don't be a spoilsport about it, just because I got to the gate first, it's –"

"Who fucking cares about the race!" Beeb yelled. "We can't just leave her out there. I can climb over, easy, but there's no way I can get back –"

"Her?" Al shook his head, trying to clear it. "Who are you talking about?"

"The baby." Beeb pointed. "She's right outside the gate. I'm going back."

Al turned and looked down, through the iron bars. There was a bundle he hadn't noticed in his zeal to get to the gate first, but it was hard to tell what it was. Crouching low, he reached through the bars to poke it with an outstretched finger. In the dim light, the blanket appeared either grey or dark green and was scratchy to the touch. _Even a woolen blanket isn't nearly enough to keep a baby warm in this weather_, he thought. _How long has it been out here?_ It made Al sick to know that someone had just left an infant out in the elements. _There was no guarantee we'd have found it in time, and if a lorry'd come up to make deliveries, the driver might not have thought to look_ . . .

A sound not unlike static tickled his ears before it registered that there were people walking toward him through the frosted grass. Al considered standing up but decided to keep his eye, and his hand, on the bundle, which shifted slightly under his fingertips.

"A, please move away from the gate so we can open it." The warm, almost unaccented voice marked it as Mr. Wammy's, though it sounded rougher than usual.

Reluctantly, Al stood, turning toward the older man and looking up at him through the sandy fringe of hair tickling his nose. "It's still alive, but there's no telling how long it's been out here."

"Everything will be alright, my boy. Come here now." Wammy cleared his throat and gestured to him. Beeb stood just behind the man, hands in his pockets, looking resentful.

Al stepped to where Beeb stood and turned to watch as the iron gate opened toward them, swinging slowly wide, unaccountably silent. Wammy moved toward the bundle before the gates had opened even half way and reached down to scoop up the bundle. He was still peering down into the folds of the material when he started walking back toward them. A faint whine came from the bundle as he walked past the two boys, who were staring at the open gates.

"Inside, boys. It's too cold and too early to play out-of-doors." The unspoken accusation was clear in Wammy's stern tone.

Sighing, Al and Beeb followed Wammy back toward the house, the gates behind them now swinging silently closed, swallowing them back into the safety of the orphanage.

~~~~~~*%*~~~~~~*%%%*~~~~~~*%*~~~~~~

Breakfast was well underway by the time Beeb emerged from Wammy's office. Al sat by himself, as usual, letting his eyes slip to the open doorway onto the hall and glimpsing, at last, the dark-haired 10-year-old with the irritated expression. Al wanted to find out what had happened but wasn't sure Beeb would even tell him. _Probably told Wammy it was all my idea to scarper off_, he thought. _Serves me right for trusting him_. Mouth twisting, he forced himself to focus on finishing his oatmeal. He didn't want the cook yelling at him for not eating again. He spooned some of the glop into his mouth, chewing absently.

"That looks gross."

Al looked up as Beeb plopped into a chair across from him. "Well it _is_ gross, innit? Aren't you going up for your share of gruel?"

Smirking, Beeb leaned back in his chair. "Eh, I'll just tell 'em I had scones when I was in with the old man. They can't prove otherwise." He looked around the room, sneering at the wreath and the long swaths of pine fronds bound with red ribbon, silvery jingle-bells dangling from them, and from the chandelier. "I fucking _hate_ Christmas."

Al tried not to roll his eyes. "So . . . what happened in there?"

Beeb shrugged. "Nothing important. They asked how we found the kid – I told 'em we went out for a walk. That's it."

"Right. I'm sure you _didn't_ tell them it was all my idea to sneak out to stop them punishing you. That's definitely your style." Al glared, forcing another spoonful into his mouth.

"You know what? Fuck you! You're never gonna know what I said or what happened now!" Beeb stood abruptly, the chair's scraping noise punctuating his words. "Have fun eating your steaming bowl of shit all by yourself!" Stomping out of the room, he didn't look behind him to see that every eye in the dining room was on him.

Blushing, Al swallowed and kept his eyes on his breakfast, trying to ignore those eyes as they turned toward him. He was used to being friendless, or he thought he'd have been used to it by now, but it still burned every time he was sneered at, mocked, or pushed around. He knew he didn't stand out much, but sometimes he wished that he was even less noticeable and could pass room to room unmolested.

"A?"

"Hm?" Al looked up to see an entirely different black-haired boy staring at him, and for a moment his breath stopped in his throat. "Um . . . yes?"

"Your presence has been requested in the main office. Please follow me." The slouching boy turned and walked away, apparently content to believe that Al would follow.

Disgruntled yet relieved to be done with breakfast, unemptied bowl notwithstanding, he did as he was expected and followed the boy in the rumpled oversized clothing to the door at the end of the hall.

~~~~~~*%*~~~~~~*%%%*~~~~~~*%*~~~~~~

"I have one more question for you."

Sighing, eyes rolling up to the ceiling as he slowed to a stop, Al waited in the middle of the hallway, not bothering to turn around, soft, slow footfalls approaching him. _I just got done with their bloody interrogation_, he thought,_ and now he wants more answers?_ "What is it, then?"

"How did you intend to get back into the compound?"

"Excuse me?" Al turned around slowly to look into the large dark eyes of the older boy. "What are you talking about?"

"You and the other one, B – you were leaving the orphanage, presumably to walk into town before daybreak. What was your re-entry plan?"

"What – no we weren't! We were just out walking, that's all –"

"Untrue. I saw you leaving – you mentioned something about a shop downtown and the other one said not to worry because it opened early." The boy's stare was intense, unblinking.

"You . . . you overheard us?"

"I could not discern your words on sound alone. I read your lips and observed your body language."

"Bloody hell . . ." Al ran a hand through his sandy-colored hair, feeling the blush overtake his face. "Wait – if you knew that much, why didn't you rat us out?"

"Hm. I suppose because I didn't think it was pertinent." The boy rubbed a bare foot against his jeans-clad leg. "And perhaps because I have considered doing the same thing, if with an alternate destination."

Al smiled. "Not quite in tune with the holiday spirit, are you?"

The boy's mouth turned down at the edges slightly, eyes becoming half-lidded. "Definitely not. And you did not answer my question."

"Oh! Right, well . . ." Al spared a look each way down the hall. "We would've walked back, stood behind that oak a few meters down from the gate, and when a lorry came round to make a delivery, we'd have got behind it and snuck back in that way."

"Ah." The boy put his thumb to his lip. "Yes, a sensible approach, but with one flaw."

"Why? What's the flaw?"

The boy smiled. "Perhaps I will tell you later." He walked past, heading toward the kitchen.

Clenching his fists, Al resisted the urge to shout at him. _The pompous bastard_, he thought. _He probably just asked so that he can prevent us getting back in if we try the plan later – I should have known_. _As many times as I've seen him, he still won't say what his name is, not even his code_. Al decided to go up to his room to read in self-imposed exile. A few children darted by him as he made his way down the hall, past the kitchen and the great room with the tree in it, to head toward the stairs.

"Don't tell me you're giving up already."

Al's grip on the banister tightened, and he looked down through the slats. "Giving up on what? I'm just going to go read – it's too noisy down here."

"You always go off and read. It's _boring_." Beeb rounded the curved end of the banister.

"I assure you, reading is the antithesis of boring. Well, depending on what sort of book it is. And whether you _can_ read." Al arched an eyebrow.

"I'm not an illiterate moron." Beeb snapped.

"Well, I imagine not if you got in this place."

"Noticed that too, eh?" Beeb grinned. "It's weird, like somebody had a 'smart kid' fetish."

"Ugh – don't even joke about that." Aleister shook his head. "If I thought this place was run by that sort of people, I'd have legged it straight off the day after I'd got here."

"Henh, henh, you never know, Ally-oop. Even when people seem OK, they can surprise you."

"People can surprise you even when they don't seem OK." Placing a hand on his hip, Al skewered Beeb with a look. "Which brings me to this: why did you take the blame entirely? You didn't have to – I went along with it. I even helped come up with the plan."

"Eh." Beeb shrugged, looking away. "They were gonna figure at least one of us was up to no good. Might as well be me. Look on the bright side." He cocked his head to one side, grinning deviously. "It means you'll be able to get away with more than me. They'll never suspect the shy little goody-goody. Just think of all the things we'll be able to do – I'll be causing distractions and getting in trouble, and you'll be sneaking around when they're not looking. We're gonna make a great team." Still grinning, Beeb moved up the stairs past Al.

"Now wait a minute – I didn't agree to anything, and who says we're a team? You barely talked to me until last month!"

"Oh, but I _watched_ you." Beeb looked over his shoulder. "Who needs books when I can read you like one? You're just as frustrated and bored as I am, whether you admit it or not."

Exasperated, Al found himself following Beeb up the stairs anyway. It wasn't until they'd reached their floor – second floor, for the under-twelves – that he asked the question that had been nagging at him since that morning. "How did you know it was a girl?"

Beeb stopped walking, foot paused on the floorboard that always squeaked. "I guessed."

Al frowned. "No you didn't, you knew. You had absolutely no doubt – you looked right at that formless blob in the dark and knew not only that a baby was inside but what gender it was. How did you know?"

There was no humor in Beeb's voice when he spoke. "You wouldn't believe me if I told you. Don't ask me again." He walked away, feet dragging on the worn carpet runner.

Swallowing, Al considered whether he wanted to follow this strange boy or not, and if he even wanted to be on his 'team.' He decided to ask a different question. "Right then. So who was the other boy in the room when they interrogated us? Or is that question off-limits too?"

Beeb faced him, grinning as he walked slowly backwards. "Oh that guy? He's L. I thought you knew."

Al found himself gaping and reclosed his mouth with a snap. He had thought that "L" was the code name for an adult detective and had suspected that the person was associated with Wammy House somehow, even considering Wammy himself on the short list of possible candidates, but if L was someone not much older than them . . . _That explains a lot_, he thought, remembering his other encounters with the perpetually disheveled older boy. He'd always thought it was odd that no one referred to him by name (though there were a number of nicknames), not even at his birthday party. Most of the children avoided him. And there had been long stretches when the boy hadn't been seen in the orphanage, though Al had always chalked it up to his just missing him or the other boy's possible introversion, something Al could relate to all too well. He hurried to catch up to Beeb.

"Then why do you call him lollipop?"

"Because it annoys him, of course."

"Is that why you smashed up his birthday cake and threw it at him?"

"Henh, henh, I mostly did that because I didn't want to be here, but the expression on his face _was_ priceless."

"Doubt it was worth being grounded."

"Oh, it so was! That guy's a total fucking snob – I'd totally do it again."

Al rolled his eyes. "Somehow, I think we can come up with a more interesting scheme than that."

"You don't say?" Beeb's grin lit up his dark brown eyes. "Told ya we'd make a great team."

"That remains to be seen." Al let his arch expression slip into a sly smile as they headed toward Beeb's room at the far end of the hall. _Of all the people to befriend me_, he thought, _I get the loony anarchist_. _Bloody figures_.

~~~~~~*%*~~~~~~*%%%*~~~~~~*%*~~~~~~

Author's Note: Yes, I know – this is way too late to be posting a Christmas story. I started this in early December 2010, but stopped a few pages in and didn't get around to even looking at it again until a few weeks ago, after I'd already started another story I haven't posted yet. I almost let it be, but then I realized that there were some details I wanted to work out about Aleister and Beyond – what they were like as kids, and how their friendship formed. Plus, I had made a few references in other fics to L having less-than-optimal experiences during the Christmas of his 12th year, so I decided to flesh some of that out. This would have been a one-shot, but it got too long and turned into a 3-shot. I'll post the next two parts soon, and I'll get to the other story when I can.


	2. Metamorphosis

Disclaimer: I do not own Death Note nor any of the characters contained therein.

Summary: When L was 12, newbies A and B experienced their 1st Christmas at Wammy House. What could possibly go wrong? Or, for that matter, right. Rated T for language/violence. Some spoilers for The Worst Feeling Ever.

**The Worst Christmas Ever**

Part 2: Metamorphosis

The voices rose as one, or mostly as one, and mostly on-key. The man conducting with raised hands shook his head and waved at them to stop. "No, no, no – you're not getting it! You lot in the back, you're supposed to come in when the ones in the front get to the _second_ line! And Delilah, you're in the right key now, but your tempo is off – if you gallop through it at that rate, you'll be done in half the time!"

"If only . . ."

Al squashed the urge to giggle at Clyde's grumbling.

"I heard that, you!" Roger raised his hands once more. "Let's try it again. We've almost got it. Ready? And . . ."

"Good King Wences_las_ looked out . . ."

A loud crashing noise halted the singing at once as all the children looked around to see what had happened. Roger, sputtering and red-faced, sprinted from the room toward the kitchen. The assembled orphans began speaking in hushed voices.

"Think we should follow?"

"_I'm_ not going after him –"

"Why's he directing instead of Wammy anyway?"

"Can't believe it was so loud and it wasn't even in this room! Wonder what happened?"

"Man, this better not have fucked up Christmas dinner."

"Too right mate – that's the best meal we get all year."

"I heard dishes breaking . . ."

"No, it was worse than that. Structural damage, that's what I'm guessing."

"Hey, where's that weird kid?"

"Which one, hee hee!"

"_You_ know which one."

"The dark-haired kid with the bug eyes?"

"Yeah, the new one."

"Good question."

Al felt their eyes swinging toward him. "Don't look at me – I don't bloody know."

"Whatever. At least it gave us a break from Herr Roger's Chorale of Doom."

Sighing, Al looked away from Clyde's offhand derision. He noticed that Beeb wasn't the only one not in attendance at the practice. _Suppose I shouldn't be surprised that L isn't here_, he thought, _now that I know who he is, but not even Wammy is here_. _I wonder if anyone else is missing_ . . .

Suddenly, the stream of grumbled exclamations came nearer and Roger emerged from the kitchen, gripping Beeb's arm, and marched the boy down the hall. Beeb threw a wink over his shoulder at Al as they went, and Al covered his eyes with his palm. _Lovely_.

It took only two seconds following the sound of Roger's office door closing when the assembled orphans moved as one toward the kitchen. The wave of children crested and broke at the door when they all gasped at the destruction. The entire set of cupboards next to the refrigerator had come off the wall, leaving bent nails and cracked plaster behind. Broken dishes and debris were all over the floor. They gaped at it in silence for a moment.

"Get out from there, you lot!" Roger's shout made them all jump, and they began stumbling over each other to get away from the kitchen door. "Practice is canceled! Go find something else to do, or I'll find something for you!"

Al had never seen a crowd disperse quite as swiftly and moved to follow.

"Not you, lad."

_Of course_, he thought, turning back to face Roger. "I haven't done anything." He hated how meek his voice sounded.

"Left it all to him, eh?" Roger seemed to be catching his breath. "Come on then." He gestured toward the hallway.

Silently, Al followed him, wondering what he was in for this time. _I don't even know how Beeb did that, let alone why_, he thought. _Not much of a partnership if I don't know what's going on_. He kept his head down, expecting to be led to Roger's office, expecting to be sat next to Beeb and interrogated in tandem. To his surprise, however, they stopped close to the front door and turned to face the wide span of wall between the umbrella rack in the corner and the coathooks down the hall. An old mirror framed in faded gold whorls reflected their images back, dim shadows with grim expressions. Al swallowed, waiting.

"What do you see?"

Al blinked. He discarded every obvious answer that sprung to his mind, sensing that Roger was trying to make a point. "Two people currently trapped in a situation that doesn't suit them, trying to find some solution."

Roger turned to him, eyebrow raised. "That wasn't quite what I meant, but since we're being philosophical . . . It's a mirror, isn't it?"

". . . Yes."

"Mirrors show reflections. Sometimes they show us what we don't want to see, but it's there just the same. But a bit of silvered glass isn't the only kind of mirror. The actions we take, or don't take, can be a mirror too. How do you suppose your actions reflect on you? How about your inactions?"

"Mr. Ruvie, I swear –"

"Just Roger, thank you. And don't swear – terrible habit, I should know."

Al kept his eyes on his own reflection, not daring to look up. "Roger. I have no idea what B did in the kitchen or why, I promise you."

There was a long pause as Roger gazed down at him. "And why not?"

"I – what?" Al dared a glance up.

"Why didn't you know?" Roger's voice was gruff but not unkind. "You two have been spending time together for a few weeks now, and you were thick as thieves by the gate early this morning. Why didn't you wonder where he was at practice?"

"Honestly?" Al took a deep breath. "He hates singing, so I figured he'd gone off on his own somewhere."

"And you didn't think to try and find him?"

"If I'd done that, I'd be in trouble for not showing up to practice myself! It's a catch-22! Plus, I _like_ singing, and I knew he'd turn up . . ."

Roger's chuckle held a bitter edge. "I think you might be the only one who likes singing around here, other than Mr. Wammy and me." Roger bent down, his blue eyes meeting Al's, a winter sky meeting a summer sea. "B hasn't taken to anyone else here – you're the only one he seems to like. You have an opportunity. You can offer him guidance, as a peer. He might listen to the voice of reason once in awhile, if the voice was yours."

"I . . . but – he _doesn't_ listen to me, no matter what I say!"

"So you warned him not to destroy the kitchen?"

"What? No! I told you – I didn't _know_ anything about that. I still don't even know what he did!"

Roger stood back up, his mouth a thin line.

A muffled thunk, like a bolt being unshot, sounded near them, echoing in the hall, and Al looked past Roger to stare at the front door. Which remained closed. A reflection of light hit his eye on his left, and he swung his head to behold the wall, or rather, a hidden door, swinging open, shunting the mirror to one side. Al stared open-mouthed as Wammy emerged.

"We believe he is telling the truth, Roger." The voice was hoarse; almost inaudible. "Might I borrow him for a moment?" Wammy's mustache twitched slightly, possibly concealing a smile.

"If you like." Roger sighed. "I have a mess to clear up, as you may recall."

"Don't handle that yourself, please – call our man."

"On Christmas eve? _That_ would be criminal."

"No, you ending up in the hospital needing a tetanus shot would be criminal. Please, Roger. He owes us a number of favors." Wammy coughed discreetly against the back of his arm.

"Fine, fine, I'll call him. But if his wife calls, I'm putting _you_ on with her." Roger pointed at Wammy before walking resolutely down the hall.

"Come in, my boy."

Hesitantly, Al entered the hidden room to discover an office very similar to Roger's, except outfitted with several computers – one on the large wooden desk and the rest clustered on and around a smaller glass desk in the front corner to Al's left. There was also a large jar of candy on the glass desk, sitting next to a solved Rubik's Cube with what looked like parts of calculus equations on the squares and a white plate with pink crumbs on it. The back wall was lined in ceiling-high bookshelves, brimming with books in several languages. The floor was a lighter shade of wood than that of the hallway and felt springier under his feet. A burgundy leather chair similar to Roger's was behind the wooden desk, while a more modern office chair, a swoop of grey on a wheeled pedestal of black, sat in front of the glass desk. Only one monitor rested on the glass desk itself – four others were affixed in a row to the wall behind it, underneath a cork board laden with newspaper clippings, air and train schedules, receipts, and assorted cryptic notes.

Finishing his scan of the room, Al turned to Wammy, who was patiently waiting, hands behind his back, seeming to emit a sweet yet medicinal scent. _No wonder he's not singing if he's ill_, Al thought. "What did you mean by 'we'?"

Wammy smiled broadly. "Shall I explain?"

"Well, I'd like –"

"That is quite alright. Save your voice – I will do so." The voice had come from around a corner Al hadn't noticed – there was a doorway off to the back left that blended with the outline of the bookshelves. The other black-haired boy emerged from it, sucking on a blue lollipop and shuffling barefoot directly to the chair in front of the glass desk without meeting their eyes. Hopping up, he perched in the chair like a monkey.

"Well, that's _that_ question answered, so no need for an explanation I suppose." Al flipped the hair out of his eyes.

"Mm. Yes, though the question I will be answering is one that has not yet been asked."

Al found himself annoyed. "You want me to ask you this supposed question?"

"No need." Pushing off from the desk with one hand, the black-haired boy spun in his chair. "But I will ask you one. What do you want to do?"

"What do I want to do? With what?"

"With your life." L continued to spin.

Al fought the irrational urge to yell 'I wanna rock!' and, after a moment of picturing himself transforming into Dee Snider, succumbed to giggles, which caused the other boy to stop spinning in his chair and glare at him, lollipop stem gripped between thumb and forefinger.

"You find my question amusing?"

"I find it amusing that you think I have some real choice in the matter." Al struggled to compose himself. "I know we're supposed to believe that we can all reach our potential, but it's not as simple as that, is it? Don't tell me that we create our own opportunities – even with that, there are limits to what one can do. Reality intrudes, and human nature prevails. I'd love to believe that I could just decide what I wanted to do and then do it, but that's not how it works. People don't get what they deserve, and there's no justice in the world."

"Don't you wish there was?"

Still catching his breath from his declamation, Al stared at the older boy, taking in the pallid face, the hollowed eyes, the unkempt poof of hair, and the rumpled clothing that draped his scrawny frame. Most orphans there knew about certain local crimes that had been solved by the mysterious "L" but not about the cases abroad – Al, however, had read a few articles in foreign newspapers, digging through the library's archives, and knew there was more to L than being some 'local hero' detective. Al didn't have all the details, but he knew L's reach was global, or nearly so. _So why would he ask me that?_ he wondered. _He can't really mean_ . . . Al clenched his fists. "I see. This is recruitment then?"

The boy raised his eyebrows. "Why do you think that?"

"Well, you're L, aren't you?"

The other boy flicked his eyes to Wammy and then back. "How did you come to such a conclusion?"

"Sorry, I don't feel inclined to share my thought process on that. But thanks for confirming my assessment. Have I asked the unasked question yet?"

L's cheeks pinked. "No. But perhaps you have answered it." He turned away, facing the computer, sticking the lollipop back in his mouth.

Al lifted his open hands halfway to the height of his shoulders. "Is that it, then?"

After the silence made it clear that L wouldn't be responding, Wammy gestured toward the door to the hall. "That will be all for now, A. Thank you for speaking with us, and do keep every part of this conversation a secret."

Nodding, Al moved toward the door, reaching for the recessed knob before he noticed something. "Hey! This is one-way glass! You were watching us the whole time, weren't you?"

"It is for security purposes—"

"Of course we were watching you." Interrupting Wammy, L didn't bother to turn around. "That was the point. I wanted to see if you were lying to protect your friend."

"He's not my friend! And that's spying!"

"Hm. Well, you're half right." L seemed to grudgingly meet his eyes. "Please at least consider my offer."

"What bloody offer? To be your recruit?"

"Successor is more like it. You seem to possess an acute sense of right and wrong, and you are correct about justice – there isn't any in the world. Except what _we_ bring to it." Something sparked in those dark eyes. "There must always be someone to fight for that, someone unbiased by personal stakes, professional ambition, or government loyalty."

"Why me?" For reasons unknown to him, Al felt defeated.

L smiled. "That was the unasked question. Thank you for asking it." He raised his index finger, lollipop still distending one cheek. "Your IQ is almost as high as my own, you have high principles and are willing to defend them, and you are deeply cynical. These are all excellent traits for a detective to have. You will need to work on your focus and perception, and if you were indeed telling the truth about not knowing what happened in the kitchen, you will also need to learn how to lie proficiently."

"What? But lying is wrong!"

"Of course it is, but sometimes it is necessary."

"Well what's the bloody point of having 'high principles' if you're just going to turn around and ignore them?"

"Oh, you shouldn't ignore them, but they must occasionally be set aside to achieve a goal. Consider the guilt you might feel as a vaccination against doing greater evil."

"Is that how it works for you?" Al gritted his teeth.

"So far." L stared into his eyes. "To personalize this, think of where we are. How many of us have been brought to this place as a consequence of tragedy? Parental abuse . . . or abandonment, by neglect or death. Is it not worth the effort to save even one person from losing their family? Or to save someone _from_ their family? To do what I do . . . there may be sacrifices, but the result is worth it. To me, at least. If you think it might be worth it to you as well, please let us know."

At last, Al was released again from those eyes, and he wondered for a moment how long they'd been staring at each other. _Blimey, it's like time stops in there_, he thought. "I'll . . . let you know," he said to L's back.

"Thank you, A." The hoarse whisper of Wammy's voice reminded him to move.

"Sure," A said, turning the knob and exiting the hidden office.

~~~~~~*%*~~~~~~*%%%*~~~~~~*%*~~~~~~

The sound of tapping awoke him, and he sat up, frowning. _There aren't any trees by my window_, he thought, turning toward it. Before he could wonder if he'd imagined it, the tapping came again, slightly louder, and Al swung his legs out of bed and stepped to the window, moving the curtain to one side with the back of his hand.

Beeb's grin greeted him, and he nearly jumped back. He could see Beeb cackling in the dim moonlight, and he considered leaving him out there. _Can't do that_, he thought. _He'd either break the window to get in or fall trying_. Al sighed and reached up to unlock the window. Hitting the frame with the heel of his palm, it finally slid open and Beeb climbed through.

"It's fucking cold out there!"

"No, really? In December? How _very_ odd." Al shut the window.

"Henh, henh, very funny. So what did you find out?"

"What did I – are you joking?" Al felt his face flush. "I found out you're mad, for a start! Though I guess it was really just a confirmation –"

"About _them!_ C'mon, Ally-oop, I gave you the perfect opportunity!"

"The perfect . . .?" Al exhaled sharply. "What you _did_ was destroy a perfectly good kitchen right before Christmas, and – no wait, here's the part I want to know first: how the bloody hell did you get to my window outside? There's no tree to climb up . . ."

"Oh, didn't I tell you? I'm really a vampire!" Beeb bared his teeth, crooking both index fingers near his incisors. "I vant to suck your blood!"

"Stop that," Al said, suppressing a giggle, "it's silly!"

"Well duh. Can't you figure out how I did it? It's not _that_ hard."

Al stared at him for a moment, taking in the slightly manic expression, the mussed hair, the grime smeared horizontally on his shirt, and the scrapes on his hands. "Bloody hell. You're more than mad. You climbed out your window and worked your way around the building by stepping windowsill to windowsill!"

"Ding! Big winner, big winner!" Beeb winked.

"You could have fallen!"

"Meh, I didn't."

"And what if someone had looked out and seen you?"

"Well, that would've sucked, but I bet their faces would've been hilarious!"

"_So_ good you're looking on the bright side." Al rolled his eyes.

"OK, OK, enough stalling – tell me what they did."

"What they did?"

"Yeah! I didn't just fuck up the kitchen cabinets for the hell of it! They needed to be replaced anyway, I heard Roger talking about it two weeks ago –"

"Well, I'm sure he really appreciated your help." Al folded his arms.

"Ally-oop, I know they must have asked you questions about me. That's why I busted some shit up – I knew they'd want to know why I did it, and I figured they'd ask you. Roger sure as hell didn't bring you into his office while I was there, and I wasn't exactly . . . cooperative." Beeb's grin widened. "So what did you find out?"

Al took his promises very seriously. He also dearly wished he had a friend, even a crazy one. _Wammy told me to keep the conversation a secret_, he thought, _but he didn't say anything about the location_. Swallowing, Al leaned forward conspiratorially. "Wammy has a secret office."

"Oh please – I know that."

"Oh really? Then where is it?"

"It's in the basement, obviously."

Al smiled. "Actually, it isn't. Look at that, the all-knowing Beeb is _wrong_ about something." Al's grin widened in response to Beeb's grimace. "You know that big old mirror in the hall, next to the front door?"

"It's one-way glass, isn't it?"

"More than that – it's a secret door to Wammy's office. I've been inside."

Beeb's eyes lit up. "Seriously? That's awesome! What's in there?"

"Well, books mainly. Six computers that I could see. It was a bit of a mess, but –"

"Was _he_ there?"

"You mean L?" Al arched an eyebrow. "He was, actually. Sucking on a lollipop, no less."

"Henh, henh, henh!" Beeb rolled on the floor, laughing. "Self-love is true love, they say!"

"Ahahaha! Stop that!" Al found himself giggling at the suggestion, unsure why he was blushing.

"Then what did they say to you?"

"Oh, it was pretty much what you'd expect." Al tossed his hair. "Used the mirror as a metaphor, said my actions or inactions _reflected_ on me, kept asking why you'd done it and how much I knew."

"They let you into their little hideaway just for that?" Beeb narrowed his eyes.

"Well, they told me not to say anything . . ." Al looked away.

"Of course they did! And where will they be when you need them, eh? Off in their Scooby van or whatever. We're a team now! C'mon, Ally, tell me."

For a moment, Beeb looked so pathetic that Al almost felt bad. Then he realized that Beeb was most likely playing him, just as he was misleading Beeb. He shook his head, frowning. "Fine, fine. But don't tell anyone you know this!"

"Henh, henh – scout's honor!" Beeb held up an entirely inappropriate two-fingered salute.

"They thought you were trying to find something in the walls, something valuable. They were very vague about it, but . . . it seems that there's been something stashed behind one of the plaster walls for years, but since they didn't know which one exactly, they couldn't just tear up every wall. They thought you'd deduced somehow that it was behind the cabinets, and they were sure you'd told me about it."

"What did you tell them?"

"The truth. That I knew nothing about it."

"Did they believe you?"

"Not at first, but by the end of it they did."

Beeb seemed to breathe a sigh of relief. "That's good."

Al's eyes widened. "Are you . . . are you saying that there _is_ something of value back in there?"

"Let's go down there and find out."

Al couldn't believe what he was hearing. _I invent a story about hidden treasure of all things_, he thought, _and Beeb turns out to have been looking for something after all?_ _Is he serious, or is he having me on to test if I'm lying?_ "We'll be caught!"

"Not if we're careful. And we're _going_ to be careful. Here's what we're going to do."

Al listened to Beeb's instructions and marveled that he was even considering going along with it. Then again, it was an excuse to sneak about the house on the night before Christmas, which gave him goosebumps to think about it.

~~~~~~*%*~~~~~~*%%%*~~~~~~*%*~~~~~~

"Leave off! We've got to go!" Even as a sharp whisper, Al felt his voice was too loud.

"I've almost . . . got it . . ." A straining crack followed Beeb's grunted words, and he came away from the wall with a large chunk of plaster in both hands. "Here, hold this," he said, grinning.

Al found the plaster shoved at him and gripped it, looking nervously behind him at the closed door. The cabinet-maker had been in already and had removed most of the debris and made some repairs, but there had been one large crack in the wall that hadn't been re-plastered yet when they'd made their way downstairs. They'd been at this for what seemed like hours, but now that Beeb had opened a sizable hole to look into, Al was more eager than ever to leave. _There are worse places to be than this orphanage, I know it_, he thought. _The last thing I need is to be kicked out and left on the streets_. Al though of the swaddled baby they'd found and shuddered. "Hurry up!"

"Hang on to your skivvies, I'm almost . . ." Beeb's voice was muffled, given that his head and one arm were thrust into the opening he'd made. "Rrrrr . . . _fuck_." Scraping noises indicated he was backing out. "Get over here and hold the flashlight." Beeb was handing the penlight back to Al.

"Oh fine." Al set the plaster chunk aside on the kitchen island and grabbed the light.

"You'll have to –"

"I know." Al moved closer, holding the light above his head and angling it down into the hole. "Your head is probably still going to block it, you know."

"Yeah. But I need both hands. Any light that gets past will help." He thrust himself back into the hole and Al wondered if the counter Beeb was kneeling on was still sturdy or if it had been weakened by the damage he'd done before.

"Ngh – dammit. Steady me, Ally."

Sighing, Al moved forward and put his other arm around Beeb, still trying to hold the penlight aloft. "If it's this much trouble, it's not worth it."

"Henh. No. It's –" Beeb grunted, and Al felt his back muscles flex. "The more trouble it is, the more _worth it_ it'll be."

A muffled thunk was followed by the high snap of splitting wood. "What the bloody hell are you doing? Don't bring the house down on us!"

"Yes! I knew it!" Beeb was worming his way back out of the hole, debris coating his shoulders and hair, and Al let go of him and lowered the light. "Paydirt, baby!" He held up a think, yellowed envelope.

"Well, what is it then?"

"Who cares – it's something they wanted hidden, and _we have it!_" Beeb hopped down from the counter. "Let's see what it is . . ."

"No!" Al looked back at the door again. "Even if no one heard all that noise you just made, there's still a chance we'll be discovered here. We have to go upstairs – we can look at it there. You don't want to give up an advantage so soon after acquiring it, do you?" Taking note of Beeb's widened eyes, Al knew he'd struck a chord. "Right then. You go up first – stay hidden, and don't press on any of the steps that squeak. I'm going to look down the hall and make sure no one's coming."

"How do I know you're not gonna stay behind and rat me out?" Beeb's gaze was steady.

"You don't, actually, but I'm not going to. After all that, I want to see what's in the envelope too. Now go on."

Shrugging, Beeb ducked down low and left the kitchen. Al peeked after him, just able to make out his ghostly form moving silently up the stairs. Realizing he still had the flashlight, he turned to face the wall, aiming the glowing circle at the gaping hole. _Can't leave it looking like that_, he thought. He grabbed the plaster chunk and moved toward the hole. After turning the piece in his hands for a moment, Al saw how it would fit and placed it back into the wall. _Hmm, still a bit wobbly_ . . . Looking around, he saw a tub of spackle with a spreading knife still left out from the initial repairs. Careful not to obscure the larger crack that had still been visible when they'd gotten downstairs, Al patched around the edge of the chunk until he was satisfied that it would stay in place. _Hopefully that'll dry before daylight_, he thought, cleaning the knife and resealing the tub. Wiping his hands, he doused the flashlight, dropping it in his pocket, and quietly exited the kitchen.

He had just touched the first step with his slippered foot when he heard a sliding noise behind him. Cautiously, Al turned to look back into the great room, though the Christmas tree blocked most of his view. _Someone spying?_ he wondered. _A burglar?_ _The Grinch?_ Al smirked at the thought, despite his heart thudding away in his chest. He considered ignoring it and just heading upstairs, but he was too curious. _If we've been seen, this could be my chance to deflect suspicion from us, or possibly add an ally to our cause, whatever that might be_. Hands sweating, Al headed to the large open room that was not usually so dark or empty.

"Did _you_ find any cake?"

"Gah!" Al jumped nearly out of his skin, but didn't see the owner of the voice anywhere. "N-no . . . I think they've moved all that. There weren't even any cookie crumbs." Moving around one of the couches by feel, he kept his other hand in front of him, wondering if he was about to be attacked.

"Mph. They always hide it from me. Hate that."

Al turned toward the source of the sound, and could almost make out a white shirt in the dark. The outside security lights were quite distant and the moon barely shone, but there was enough ambient light to make out faint details. Like a pale face above the shirt, and hands like lilies – one draped over the back of the couch and the other dragging the floor. "That you, L? What are you doing out here?"

"Should ask you the same. Not going to, though. Or maybe I will." There was a sound of cloth on leather as L sat up. "Mm. Do you like cake?"

"I like a lot of things, cake among them." Al wasn't sure if he wanted to sit down or run.

"We could conspire, you and I." L let out a strange, low chuckle. "We could find the stash of cake and sweets together."

Al almost smiled. "They'd have our heads for that, I'd expect."

"I wouldn't. Expect." L seemed to be rubbing his face, from the motion Al detected.

"Are . . . are you alright?"

"Yes. Hm. No, probably not."

"Well . . . what happened?"

"Mm. I suppose I got cocky." A rustle of cloth and a horizontal motion seemed to indicate that L was wiping his nose with a sleeve. Apparently realizing he wasn't being clear, L continued. "I drank all the eggnog."

"You – what?" Al suppressed a giggle. "Well, that's a sweet of some kind at least."

"It was, yes. Sweet. But it tasted wrong."

"Why'd you drink it all then?"

"Because it was Roger's, and Roger hates me."

Al gaped at him, glad it was so dark. "I don't – I don't think he _hates_ you, though I will concede he doesn't seem fond of anyone."

"He is fond of Watari."

Blinking, Al registered the strange name – something that sounded vaguely like a liqueur – and then registered that he was not supposed to know it as recognition bloomed in his head. "Well, that . . . sounds delicious?"

"Fuck."

"Excuse m—" Al found himself tackled and pinned to the floor. "Ow! Stop it! Get off!"

"I have revealed too much. I require your word that you will tell no one what you know."

"You could try persuasion, you berk! Works much better than – ow!" Al winced as L bent his arm behind his back, wedging him facedown where the sturdy chair met the floor next to the couch.

"This is persuasion – am I not being persuasive?" L's breath was at his ear. "Give me your word."

_How much alcohol was in that stuff?_ Al wondered, thinking that there was so much blood in his face that it might split. "I will give you my word that I will not reveal the name you just revealed to me, but if you _ever_ want me to cooperate with you again, you will unhand me immediately."

"Hm. You 'will' give me your word – which means that you haven't done so yet."

"I give you my word!" Al huffed over his shoulder into L's face, their exhalations wrestling as well, the scents of nutmeg, molasses, and whiskey in L's breath winning over the faint whiff of toothpaste on Al's handily.

"Consider our pact made." L let go and moved off quickly, plopping back down on the couch.

"Our . . . pact?" Al shifted to sit on the floor, rubbing his arm.

"You will keep my secrets. You gave your word. Also, in exchange for unhanding you, you will cooperate with me."

"That's not exactly –" Al stopped speaking, noticing distant footsteps.

"Go upstairs, and quickly." L's whisper was suddenly close again. "I will distract him. Part of our pact. Go." L made a shooing motion in front of Al's face.

Without another word, Al headed toward the stairs and crept up them, avoiding every squeak. After he got to his floor, he heard voices below him, too muffled to make out the words, but by the tone and timbre, he guessed it was Roger talking to L. _Blimey_, he thought, _I'd never have expected L to cover for me_. _Hurrah for spiked eggnog, then_.

Al unlocked his door, wondering where Beeb had hidden, only to be grabbed and shoved against the door, closing it. "Ugh! Get off!"

"Did they catch you? Do they know?"

"Of course not!" Al sputtered as Beeb flicked on the light. "Someone was coming, so I had to hide. Oh, also, I patched the huge hole you left, so you're welcome."

"Henh. Henh, henh, henh!" Beeb let go of Al. "Good work. Wanna see what we found?"

"Oh no, I thought I'd nip off right to sleep instead of looking at the thing we spent over two hours extracting." Al folded his arms, frowning.

"Well, if you don't want to –"

"Give it, or I'll break your arm!" Al was surprised to find himself nearly shouting. So was Beeb, by his expression.

"Henh, I gotta say, I like it when you're feisty." Beeb raised an eyebrow. "C'mon, it's over here."

Yellowed pages were spread out on his desk. As he approached, already trying to read the long, looping script, Al wondered if there was any value in knowing what was in the letter, as if some knowledge might be poisonous.

~~~~~~*%*~~~~~~*%%%*~~~~~~*%*~~~~~~

Author's Note: Here's part 2! Watari's not feeling so well, and Roger's certainly cranky (I'm imagining Roger being voiced by Michael Caine for some reason, and Al being voiced by a child version of Jude Law, hmm). Poor Al – he's gone from mostly ignored to caught in the middle, but at least he seems less bored. Some of that may have been a little _too_ fun for me to write. ^_^ I'll get to part 3 soon.

Thanks for reading!


	3. Decisions

Disclaimer: I do not own Death Note nor any of the characters contained therein.

Summary: When L was 12, newbies A and B experienced their 1st Christmas at Wammy House. What could possibly go wrong? Or, for that matter, right. Rated T for language/violence. Some spoilers for The Worst Feeling Ever.

**The Worst Christmas Ever**

Part 3: Decisions

The banging noises from the other room had stopped, but there was still rustling and the occasional murmur of conversation. Al expected that they were likely cleaning up, and based on Roger scurrying to and fro carrying dishes, possibly restocking the new cabinets as well. He wasn't sure what time the cabinet-maker and the handyman had restarted work that morning, but it must have been early. He'd ask Beeb about it, if Beeb weren't being forced to help them as part of his punishment. The noise had been a jarring counterpoint during the giving of gifts, which was orchestrated by a mostly silent Wammy, replete in a Santa outfit. L looked even paler than usual, which Al hadn't thought possible, and was now sulking in a corner. Al wondered if he had a hangover and struggled not to smirk about it.

"Right, everyone!" Roger came barreling out of the kitchen and clapped his hands once, sending a cloud of flour into the air around him. "I know we've not practiced properly, but assemble please for the singing of carols!"

A chorus of groans went up, causing Roger to scowl. Smiling softly, Al set his present – a leather-bound copy of Watership Down – aside on its neatly folded wrapping paper. He took his place at one end of the front row of reluctantly gathering children. Sneaking a look behind him, he saw Beeb peering from the kitchen doorway, snickering. _I'm sure he's delighted he doesn't have to sing_, Al thought.

"Come on then, you too!" Roger bellowed at L, earning a deep glare from the boy. "And you!" Roger swung his arm to point in the opposite direction at Beeb, who looked quite surprised.

"But I 'm supposed to be –"

"I know what you're supposed to be doing – I told you to do it! Now get out here and sing with us. You can get back to your punishment when we're through."

L was gradually making his way toward the group when Beeb stomped over and stood next to Al. Narrowing his eyes, L changed direction slightly and took his place at the opposite end in the back row. Al wondered briefly if L had intended to stand next to him before Beeb took that spot, but dismissed it.

"Alright, you lot, we'll start with something simple. Jingle Bells, all together. Ready, and . . ." Roger made a swoop of his arms, conducting them as if they were an orchestra instead of a group of disgruntled orphans.

"Jingle bells, jingle bells, jingle all the way . . ." Al sang without reluctance or shame. He didn't think he had the best voice, but he could hit on key within his range. Singing took him out of himself, if only for a few moments, and gave his mood a boost. The fact that the others weren't as enthusiastic didn't distract him, nor did Beeb's elbow nudging his ribs as he grumble-sang next to him. As the song came to an end, Al turned quickly and shook his head at Beeb, who rolled his eyes.

"Well, that was bloody awful. You can do a lot better than that!" Roger glowered. "And this time, _all_ of you need to sing – I know which ones are just moving their mouths. You!" Roger pointed to someone in back. "You come right up to the front, right now."

Heads turned and they all goggled at L, who slouched his way to the front. Al had never seen him singled out like this before, and was slightly surprised as he complied. Beeb snickered next to him. _Maybe Roger doesn't let L get his way as much as Wammy does_, he thought. _Blimey, he looks awful_. _Wonder if he's going to be sick_.

"You can start us off. Once you've got through the first verse and chorus of The First Noel on your own, the rest of us will join in. And don't pretend you don't know the words!"

L stood there, wobbling just slightly as he stared at the floor. As Roger opened his mouth, possibly to admonish him again, L took a deep breath and raised his head. "The first Noel, the angels did say . . ."

Blinking in surprise, Al was impressed with L's high tenor – it spooled out of the boy with a minimum of vibrato, all of it on key, and some of it even sounding tinged with emotion. Roger even seemed to forget himself for a moment in the listening. It wasn't until the middle of the chorus, and the fourth "Noel," that L's voice cracked, causing them all to wince. L finished the chorus, singing "Born is the King of Israel" with somewhat less grace, face flushed and fists clenched. As if nothing had gone wrong, Roger raised his arms once more, and the assembled group came in on the second verse, "They looked up and saw a star . . ."

They managed to get through the rest of the song, and Roger gestured for L to re-take his place in the back row. "Right then, let's do Ding Dong Merrily on High!" He nodded at Delilah, who seemed to perk up, and raised his arms again.

"I'll put _my_ ding-dong merrily on high," Beeb muttered in Al's ear, causing him to giggle.

"Oi! You two behave, or I'll split you up!" Roger wagged a finger in Al's direction. "Focus on the song, you lot, and everyone sing together. Ready? And . . ."

Al found himself singing along automatically, wondering how many songs they would have to get through for Roger to be satisfied. He suspected that Roger was buying Wammy time to rest, since the man was clearly not well. Several of the regular kitchen staff had arrived since they'd started caroling, all of them carrying covered dishes with oven mitts into the dining room. _They must have had to use their own kitchens_, he thought, _or at least heated the food elsewhere_. Al took a deep breath to sing the chorus, ignoring Beeb's off-key warbling next to him. _I always liked the "Glorias" best in this song_, he thought. _Pity the rest is a bit naff_. He was almost glad that Wammy was not present for the moment. It had been hard enough to look him in the eye after reading the secret letter.

~~~~~~*%*~~~~~~*%%%*~~~~~~*%*~~~~~~

"Gareth, before you go . . . thank you kindly for assisting us today of all days. We very much appreciate it."

"It's no trouble, Mr. Wammy," the cabinet-maker replied, pocketing the envelope that had been pressed into his hand. "I'm just lucky Drew was on hand to help. Take care of yourself, and you have a happy Christmas, sir."

"And to you as well." Wammy croaked.

As soon as the front door shut, Al dashed back behind the corner and around the bend into the dining room, where he'd been helping Beeb set tables. Everything was just about ready, and he grabbed some more silverware to slap down on tables.

"See anything good?" Beeb whispered, waggling his eyebrows.

"Not really. Looked like Wammy gave him a tip, but they didn't say anything about not finding the, uh," Al looked around, "you know."

"Henh. Either they don't know it was there, or they already know we have it and are biding their time."

"That makes no sense. Why would they –"

"Because they want to see what we'll _do_."

Al thought about it. _If they knew we have the letter addressed to Rhys Wammy, odds are they'd want it back intact and they wouldn't want us talking about it to others_. _But if they're testing us, to determine if we're morally fit, or if I'm really worthy enough to be a successor_ . . . He sighed. _Well, we're failing the morality test, if that's what it is_. _It's so strange – I had no idea that Wammy was even married, let alone that he'd had an affair. With a first name like Rhys, he could be Welsh_. _I wish we'd been able to make out the date_. _For all I know, this could be some relative of Wammy's_.

"Have you seen Roger?" Al asked, looking around. "I'm surprised he's not supervising us more."

"Eh, he's probably –"

A wood-splitting crash interrupted Beeb, and their eyes flew wide, locking with each other's for a second before running in the direction of the sound. They'd just rounded the corner to see a group of staring children when they heard a near-inhuman wail coming from the kitchen.

"WHAT THE BLOODY HELL HAVE YOU DONE? THEY JUST FIXED THAT FUCKING THING!"

The growing crowd of orphans gasped at the sound of Roger cursing before looking around at each other. Several eyes lit upon Beeb, and he raised his hands. "Hey, it wasn't me this time!"

"NO YOU DON'T! You stay RIGHT here! I'll not have you traipsing through the house getting treacle everywhere! You'll take those off where you stand!"

Wammy was suddenly rushing past them to the kitchen. When he swung the door open, they all got a glimpse of Roger, red-faced, standing over L, who was attempting to pull his stained shirt off over hair that was flat against his head for a change. The new cabinets, just behind them, were canted slightly, one end pulled out from the wall. There was a brown splash on the floor. The door closed too quickly for Al to see anything else.

Laughter gradually bubbled out of Beeb, and eventually a number of the others followed suit. Al frowned. He extrapolated from what he'd glimpsed, trying to figure out what had happened. _Well, he's got treacle all over himself, that much is clear_, he thought, _but that's clumsy even accounting for him being hungover_. _Roger likely only just started restocking the cabinets_. _Could Beeb have rigged it so they would fall again?_ _That seems a bit much, even for him_. _Though he is enjoying himself_. Al glanced at Beeb, whose eyes were watering from laughing so hard. _Wait – I never looked inside the wall!_ _I heard wood splitting last night . . . if Beeb damaged the support beam, the cabinet-maker wouldn't have known it due to my covering up the hole_ . . .

The groan died in Al's throat as the door swung open again. Wammy emerged, expression unreadable.

"When you're done in the shower, you're coming back down to clean this mess up!" Roger's voice boomed out of the kitchen. "AND you'll be explaining to Mr. Vaughan why he's got to redo all the work he's done!"

L appeared from behind Wammy, fists clenched and wearing nothing but "_Gatchaman Underoos?_" Beeb said disbelievingly before bursting into unrestrained cackles.

The others laughed loudly as well, and Al slapped his hand over his mouth to stop himself from joining in. L was painfully skinny, his knobby knees standing out, with the only discernable fat on him being the babyfat left in his face. _Blimey_, he thought, _the poor bloke __**looks**__ like a lollipop_. _Cherry-flavor, by the look of his face_. It made his underwear choice seem that much more lamentable. Without meeting any of their eyes, L stalked up the stairs, and Al watched him go, unsure how this would affect their 'pact' or his successorship or how things would be in the House from now on.

"Henh, henh, henh – I can't believe he still wears something like –"

"YOU!" Roger was suddenly shouting and pointing at Beeb. "You and I need to have a conversation!"

"Hey, I didn't do anything! I was in the –"

"Shut it! My office, now!"

Beeb sighed, and stomped off down the hall, followed by Roger and then Wammy. Al saw Beeb go into Roger's office, but Roger and Wammy stopped in the hall outside. He felt rather than saw the other orphans disperse, some toward the kitchen to peek in, others elsewhere. The two older men were speaking too softly for Al to hear them, but he watched, wondering if he could pick up lip reading himself. He thought he was just getting the hang of it, catching an "I'm sorry" from Roger, who was shaking his head, when Wammy reached out, placing his hand on Roger's face. The gesture was unexpectedly tender. Just barely, Al was able to see Wammy's mouth form the words "I love you" and felt his own mouth fall open.

The men in the hall parted ways, and Al sped up the stairs and right to his room. As he locked the door behind him, he thought, _That letter can't be to Wammy, or at least not to __**our**__ Wammy_. _He's . . . they're . . . gay!_ His heart was pounding, and he could not tell if he felt terror or a kind of glee.

~~~~~~*%*~~~~~~*%%%*~~~~~~*%*~~~~~~

Dinner had been delicious, and the conversation lively, if awkward. Copious in their absence had been Beeb, who'd been exiled to his room for some reason, and L, who had not re-emerged after scrubbing the kitchen floor. Al was mainly excluded from most of the dinner conversations, except when someone wanted to know what Beeb had done. Once he demonstrated plausible enough ignorance, they stopped asking. Al didn't mind. Most of the time, he was content to listen.

The letter was still on his mind. Turning it over to Wammy would constitute betrayal in Beeb's eyes, Al was sure of it, but he felt no victory in keeping it. The content of the letter was quite . . . explicit, though the phrasing had been archaic. Thinking of the delicate handwriting forming descriptions of romantic love and overtly sexual acts made him blush. _It's possible I misinterpreted Wammy's exchange with Roger_, he thought, _or I suppose 'Rose' could have been a pseudonym for a man from Wammy's youth_. _Then again, if it's a relative_ . . . He wondered if he could glean some information from Wammy himself, to help him decide what to do with it. As he was having the thought, he felt the couch cushions tilt to one side and looked up to behold the subject of that thought sitting beside him.

"Might I have a word?"

"Of-of course, Mr. Wammy." Al's hands twisted in his lap.

"This has been your first Christmas here at the House," he croaked out. "What did you think of it?"

"What did I . . . ?" Al suppressed a laugh. "Well, it's been a bit chaotic, honestly. Is it always like this?"

"Oh, there is always some measure of chaos on any given day, and holidays do tend to magnify that, but this year's festivities stand out as unusual." Wammy's sly smile distorted his mustache only slightly. "And well done on turning the question back around on me."

Al blushed. "Sorry – didn't mean to. It's just . . ." He swallowed. "I don't know what to say."

Wammy tilted his head. "Sometimes it's best to just say what's important to you."

Al stared at him, a slow certainty coming over him. Determined to remain cautious, he asked "When was this house built?"

"Well, originally, this was a monastery, built in 1609." Wammy cleared his throat and reached into his jacket pocket to extract a lozenge, popping it in his mouth. "My grandfather acquired it after it had fallen into disrepair, and my father refurbished it. He had intended to turn it into a hotel, but never quite got the capital to get it open and running. I inherited it when he passed, and Roger and I decided to found the orphanage here. Was that more or less information than you wanted?"

"It's – well, actually . . . Was your father's name Rhys?" Al blurted out, blushing faintly.

Eyebrows raised, Wammy kept his eyes on Al's face. "Why would you think so?"

"I . . . just wondered." Al looked away. Silence stretched between them, and he began to feel bound by it, as if silence was wrapping itself around him, choking him. _He knows_, Al thought. _He knows, and if I don't tell him, I'll betray his trust, but if I do tell him, I'll betray Beeb's_.

"I see." Wammy's weight left the couch, the cushion springing back into place as he rose and turned away.

"I'll give you the letter." Al's voice was a monotone.

"What's that?" Wammy half-turned, head swung to the right to peer past his shoulder at Al. "Please explain."

Sullenly, Al met his gaze. "You already know I have it. It's in your voice. Do you have every room bugged, or just mine?"

Wammy's eyes widened slightly, mustache twitching. "That's an impertinent accusation –"

"But not an invalid one, given your response." Al's eyes flashed. "I know we had no right to take it, or to keep it from you, but simply handing it over will undermine any trust Beeb has in me. Roger said I had an opportunity to be some sort of guiding influence on Beeb. If you agree with him that there's some value in that, it'd be better if you took it back from me, possibly after admitting you had my room bugged." His hands shook, and he fought to keep them steady, clenching them together.

"Are you trying to blackmail me, A?"

"It's not blackmail! I'm giving you an out, a way of getting what you want and maintaining status quo. I've made no threat against you, nor will I. The only reason – at least, the only one that makes sense – that you've not already taken the letter is that you wanted to see what I would do. What _we_ would do. And this is it, so now you know. I just," Al's breath hitched, "I don't want to lose my only friend."

After a moment, Wammy sighed. "I understand. Do you understand my position?"

"Well, either you knew about the letter and wanted to find it, or you didn't know and became interested in it after hearing us talk about it. It . . . it's personal to you, and whether you would be embarrassed by its content or not, you want it, either to keep or to destroy." Al looked up and met the eyes of the man standing before him.

"Well-reasoned. All of it. I accept your proposal, with one addendum: you must show me where you placed the letter."

Al blinked, eyes widening. "You don't know?"

Wammy's eyes twinkled. "Bugs do not mean cameras, A. You and B were careful not to mention the hiding place."

Al wanted to slap his own forehead, but resisted the temptation. _At least I'll be done with it once he has the letter_, he thought. _It won't weigh on me anymore_. He stood to lead Wammy upstairs to the loose board under his dresser in his room, another question rising to his lips. "So who is Rhys then?"

"That was my father's given name, as you guessed."

"Then what's yours?"

"Quillish."

"Blimey, that's worse than mine." Al slapped a hand over his mouth, removing it only once he realized that the man was chuckling. He shook his head as he reached the second floor landing. "Did . . . did you know her? Rose?"

Wammy smiled. "Rose was my mother. She was my father's second wife – quite the scandal at the time, I'm told, for him to run off with the flighty, artistic girl ten years his junior. Broke his first wife's heart, but they divorced amicably enough."

Al wasn't sure he would want to see a love letter from one of his parents to the other, but decided not to mention this. "Were they . . . happy?" He blinked, wondering why he'd asked such a question.

"They were indeed." Wammy nodded as they reached Al's door. "They strongly encouraged creativity and initiative in me. Were it not for the butler, I might never have learned manners." He entered Al's room ahead of him. "Though I wish I had not lost them at age 17, I feel lucky to have known them for that long."

Standing near the door, Al watched the older man bend and lift up the board to extract the letter. "Is that why you started the orphanage?"

On hand on the dresser as he pulled himself back up, Wammy spoke over his shoulder. "It was among the reasons. We cannot rely on luck to shape circumstance. I wanted to provide opportunity to those who might make the most of it."

Their eyes met, and they nodded. Mumbling a thank you, Wammy walked out the door, reaching back to tousle Al's hair as he went. The sound of the door shutting made Al wonder about which doors might still be left open, and which ones he wanted to go through.

~~~~~~*%*~~~~~~*%%%*~~~~~~*%*~~~~~~

"Before you go – have you come to a decision?"

"Pardon?"

"About whether you are willing to be my successor." L was stirring a mug of hot cocoa with a candy cane.

"I . . . I have." Al actually hadn't quite decided until that moment, but considering that Wammy had kept his end of the bargain in keeping Al blameless in Beeb's eyes for the letter's recovery, he was willing enough to participate. "What is entailed, by the way?"

L slurped at the cocoa, gaze distant. "You will take on additional coursework that is not necessarily extended to the other students. We'll send you the list. On occasion, we may have you work on cases, either ongoing or solved ones just for practice."

"How long before I start taking cases on my own?"

Regarding Al with a baleful stare, L replaced the mug on his desk, porcelain clinking on glass. "That remains to be seen."

"Well, shouldn't there be –"

"Also," L interrupted, "you will require a codename. We will be calling you . . . Alternate."

"What? Isn't 'A' sufficient as a code? It's what people call me anyway."

"Hm. We could use 'A' for the sake of expedience, I suppose, but your full code as a successor will be Alternate."

Unable to help himself, Al rolled his eyes. "That's ridiculous. It's not a name at all!"

"Well, it isn't intended to be a name." L crunched off the hooked end of the candy cane.

"If I'm being called by it, then it's as good as a name!"

"You have an actual name, whether we call you by it or not. It does not affect your identity."

"That's my point – our names DO affect our identities. Can't I just have a proper name?"

"I cannot promise that we would address you by a name of your choosing, assuming that you are even willing to choose a name, since you were reluctant to do so before." L raised an eyebrow. "I will, however, mention all this to . . . Wammy."

"Pfft – let's not go back to _that_ if I'm meant to be your 'alternate'." Al folded his arms. "Like it or not, I'll be calling him Watari now."

"As long as you do not refer to him by that name in front of the others, that is acceptable."

"And I suppose I'm to keep all this from Beeb as well?" Al glowered at L.

"If you like. For the record, however, we will be calling _him_ 'Back-Up'."

Al's mouth fell open. "Wait – he's a successor too?"

"Yes." L turned in his chair, bare toes gripping the edge of the seat. "Is that a problem?"

"It's – no! That's . . ." Al started laughing, to L's apparent surprise. "That's brilliant! I mean, the codenames are still blindingly stupid, but if he's one too, I can talk to him about it!" He noticed L was scowling at him. "What? You said 'If you like', so I can talk to him about being a successor if I choose, and I do. I have to say, though, I'm surprised you picked him. You two don't get on at all."

"Our personal feelings are irrelevant. His aptitude is at the same approximate level as yours, and thus he is an acceptable candidate. He accepted immediately when we asked him earlier."

Al snorted. "What did _he_ say about his codename?"

A smirk appeared very briefly on L's face. "I have no idea. I asked Watari to tell him." Looking away for a moment, he sighed, a scowl crimping his brow.

"What is it?" Al tilted his head. "Isn't it a good thing to have two more on your team?"

"I suppose that's one way of looking at it. It's just that . . . this has been," L took a deep breath, "the _worst_ Christmas ever."

Al was surprised to hear him speak like an average 12-year-old for once. "Well, it hasn't all been bad . . ."

"Incorrect. Everything has been awful. Watari has been sick. Roger has been . . . Roger. _I_ was ignorant enough to think that drinking eggnog was a good idea." L exhaled sharply. "Do you know what I got for Christmas? Socks. Socks!" L's eyes were even larger than normal, which was saying something. "I _hate_ socks! And the singing – I hate singing! Watari knows this. He would not have forced me to participate. Roger was goading me on purpose because he resents me –"

"I thought you had a lovely voice – well, until that one bit." Al was carefully stifling the giggles that threatened to spill out.

"Mm. It is not my goal for any part of me to be _lovely_." Upending the mug against his mouth, L slurped down the last of the cocoa. "And I don't even want to talk about the incompetence of that cabinet-maker and his helper. If they had done their jobs properly, they'd have noticed that the support beam was unsound . . ."

Al's urge to laugh was quieted somewhat by a rush of guilt. _I've no idea what he'd do if he knew Beeb broke the beam and I covered it up_, he thought. _Best not mention it_. "At least it was treacle and not glue – that would have been much worse to try and wash off."

"Hm. True, though I would have been surprised if Roger had been keeping a large jar of that in the kitchen. Also, I would not have been attempting to eat a spoonful of glue."

Unable to hold back anymore, Al burst into laughter. "I'm sorry – I'm, ah ha ha ha!" He clutched his stomach, trying to stop, watching through watering eyes as L's scowl slowly morphed into a reluctant smile.

"I suppose it is . . . somewhat amusing, from a more detached perspective."

"Sorry, sorry . . ." Al shook his head. "I have a bit of a weakness for slapstick, it seems."

"Mm. Apparently."

Al straightened up, catching his breath. "Is your hangover at least gone? I know that can't have helped things."

L sighed. "My headache has abated for the most part, yes. I was actually pleased with myself for having resisted the urge to vomit last night, but in retrospect, purging my stomach contents might have speeded my recovery."

"Ugh – well, personally, I'm glad you didn't purge your stomach contents onto my head whilst wrestling me, thanks."

A muffled laugh from low in L's throat surprised Al. "Yes," L said, "I expect that would have been especially unpleasant for _you_."

"Thanks for covering for me with Roger, by the way. You surprised me."

"Did I? Interesting. Well, despite my state of mind at the time, we did make a pact. Any pact is meaningless unless it is mutual. For you to cooperate with me, I must cooperate with you. Within reason, of course."

"Good to know." Al gave him an appraising look as L turned away to face his computer. _Are we . . . friends now?_ he wondered. _He's so hard to read sometimes, though perhaps that's his intention_.

"The Soviet Union is dissolving." L's tone was dry.

"Well, we knew that –"

"I mean it's official now. Gorbachev has stepped down."

"Wow." Al absorbed the implications of this. "It's a whole new world now."

"To a certain extent. Thank you, Al—"

"Don't call me Alternate!" Al snapped.

L nodded, back still turned. "Very well. Thank you, A."

"You're welcome. And . . . thanks for the opportunity." Not sure of what else to say, Al moved to exit Wammy's – no, _Watari's_ – secret office. For the first time, he felt he was a part of something good, something that mattered. Every molecule of him wanted to hold onto that feeling.

He was only a few steps down the hallway when he spotted Beeb from the back, walking toward the great room, and he hurried to catch up. "So when were you going to tell me?"

Beeb spun, eyes widening as he took in Al's expression and seemed to gauge the context from thin air. "They told me not to!"

"I don't believe you! They told me it didn't matter if I told you, just not to discuss it with the others."

A frown took Beeb's face. "Fucking assholes – they're playing us against each other!"

Al rolled his eyes. "Maybe. Though now I'm thinking of it . . ." He sighed heavily. "You accepted first, so they might have been excluding me until they knew my intentions."

"Hey, if I'm the one who accepted first, how come _I'm_ Back-Up and _you're_ Alternate? I should be first in line!"

Al's head reared back. "What are you on about? The terms are interchangeable. We're not in line, one behind the other, we're both together, waiting."

"Right. I'm sure that's how _he_ sees it."

"However he sees it, that's how it _is_." Al folded his arms.

"Whatever." Beeb looked away, still glowering. "Figures that they fucking spied on us. I'm gonna go check my room for bugs. See ya at breakfast, Ally-oop."

Al watched Beeb march off up the stairs, not noticing anyone else was nearby until a hand descended on his shoulder. "Gah!" He spun to meet Watari's eyes. "You're bloody sneaky, you know that! Did you have ninja training?"

Watari smiled. "I apologize. I didn't intend to startle you." His voice still sounded rough. "Congratulations on becoming a successor, Alternate. I – what is it?"

"The codenames. They're not names at all. They're awful." Al pouted.

"As I recall, when you first arrived here, you didn't want to be addressed by your real name and refused to pick a new one. It's why we settled on calling you 'A'." Wammy's tone was gentle.

"I know. It's just . . . to be called 'Alternate' is humiliating, as if I'm just a spare part in a machine shop."

"Well, if I might make a suggestion . . ." Wammy leaned closer to Al, "try to think of a codename you'd prefer and propose changing it to that. I'd recommend keeping your first initial 'A' to make it more likely that your proposal will be approved, but other than that, I'd say you could get quite creative. You could use a regular given name, or a word you like . . ."

"Aren't you in charge?" Al piped up. "I mean, you'd be the one making the decision anyway."

Wammy chuckled. "Not quite. I like to delude myself that I'm in charge sometimes, but it seems I've been taking orders from a certain boy for some time now." He smiled. "I'll be happy to back you, if subtly, should you choose to make such a proposal, but you will need to make it to him."

Al narrowed his eyes and placed a hand on his hip. _Blimey_, he thought, _it's like they're putting responsibility off on each other_. "This is really just a renewed attempt to get me to choose my own name, isn't it?"

Wammy winked, still smiling. "We don't always get the opportunity to mold things to our liking, so it's wise to make the most of one when it comes around. Make your choice. The more you stand up for yourself, the better equipped you'll be to deal with the circumstances in which you find yourself."

Al felt himself nodding as his mind turned to another thought. "What's happening with the baby? Is she alright?"

"She's in remarkably good health, considering. We searched for her family, but were unable to find any connections. There was a report of a missing teenage girl from a few months ago, but it's unclear if she might have been the mother, and we haven't tracked her down in any event. We'll keep looking, but for the time being, the baby is staying with us. B asked after her earlier. It was his suggestion that we name her Belinda, but we've settled on Linda."

"Linda. It's a nice name." Al tried not to sound bitter. _Glad some of us get proper names_, he thought, wondering what name he would choose for himself. Every time he tried to think of a name that defined him, he was stumped. To a certain extent, he felt that there wasn't much to define. _I'm overthinking it, of course_. He was happy that the little one was doing well.

"I thought so. It has a Celtic root in the word 'lind', meaning soft or tender."

"Well, _that_ or . . . it could be derived from the mythical Celt beast the Lindworm, which is a wingless bipedal dragon . . ." Al noticed Watari's brow furrowing. "Nevermind. I'm sure your definition's closer to the mark."

"We'll introduce her to the orphanage in the morning so that everyone can stop whispering about her."

_Nobody's been whispering to me about her_, Al thought, _but what else is new_. _At least now I have secrets to keep from them_. "Sounds good. See you in the morning then Wa— er, W." Al winked at the older man before launching himself up the steps. _I may have lost my hiding place, but Beeb still has a few, and I'm sure I'll find others, especially once I get to move to third floor on my 13__th__ birthday_. _Something to look forward to_.

Al knew things would be changing, for him, for Beeb, for the others, but he had no idea just how much. He was excited to be on the precipice of it, as if he was literally feeling the breeze and sun on his face, ready to jump right in, with or without a parachute. Whatever else happened, whatever else he became, he felt free.

~~~~~~*%*~~~~~~*%%%*~~~~~~*%*~~~~~~

Blinking, it registered abruptly that it was snowing – had been snowing, for at least an hour by the look of it. _About time_, Aleister thought, leaning closer to the window.

Their first Wammy House Christmas had been the only one they hadn't successfully snuck out, but he and Beyond had made up for it every year afterwards. Twice on Christmas eve, once in the wee hours early on Christmas Day, once three days prior, and this year they'd done it one week in advance. _Can't believe I let him take me to that dingy bar_, Aleister thought, shaking his head. _You'd think I'd have learned from watching L all those years ago not to drink whiskey_ . . . _Though watching Beyond dance with that elderly woman before taking her husband for a spin on the floor was worth it_.

He considered going to Beyond's room and waking him to tease him again for disrupting their practice caroling with the recording of amp feedback going off at top volume in the middle of it – he'd apparently set it to a timer, and when the recording had played, it had blown out the stereo speakers, to Roger's extreme displeasure.

"After all this time, Ally-oop, you'd think Roger'd know not to force me to sing," Beyond had said, grinning.

"Yes, as I recall, he banished you preemptively last year," Aleister had responded.

"Nah, I just hid and he didn't try to find me that time. Good move." And Beyond had waggled his eyebrows, unconcerned that he was being given additional chores as punishment again.

_At least he wasn't responsible for the fire alarm this morning_, Aleister thought. _Beyond was a right terror back in the day, though, so if Mello's trying to give him a run for his money, he's got much further to go_. It was possible that Mello knocking over Near's dominoes, only to have said dominoes knock over a lit candle, had been an accident – possible, but not likely. Aleister wondered if Mello and Near would form the kind of odd friendship that he and Beyond had, or if things would be completely different between them. _Well, they're different people_, he thought, _with somewhat different circumstances, and different choices to make_. _No telling how they'll be_. He hadn't seen Matt all day, but suspected the boy had known what might happen and had decided to stay out of the way. _Smart lad_.

As he stared at the delicately falling snow, Aleister pushed all thoughts of Toronto and L to the back of his mind again. He set aside his thoughts on the work he'd been handling as well, content to feel like a tiny figure in a giant snowglobe. He felt himself deciding to let some things go, deciding to be happy, deciding, at last, that it was the anticipation that he most liked about Christmas. Sometimes it seemed as if the anticipation of joy was better than joy itself. _Hope fuels us all_, Aleister thought, finally closing the curtain. _May it never run out_.

~~~~~~*%*~~~~~~*%%%*~~~~~~*%*~~~~~~

Author's Note: And here we are at part 3, the conclusion. Some fluff, some angst, and a bunch of background. Not the most typical Christmas-y story, and put up out of season (sorry), but it was fun to explore younger versions of these characters. I have no idea, by the way, if they ever made Underoos for Gatchaman (known in the US as G-Force and/or Battle of the Planets), but I was hard-pressed to think of an embarrassing underpants choice that wouldn't be incredibly OOC (sorry, no Hello Kitty). The other story I'm working on may be a bit of a contrast to this, though it will also focus on A, B, and L. Hopefully I can get the first part of that posted soon – we'll see.

Thanks for reading!


End file.
